Not sex this time. An actual argument. I put music on and hated myself for listening. Thin walls make you an unpaid bloody little witness.
Tag: work
Habit from years of it. Where the door is. Who I came with. How I get home. Then I ignore it for one last look.
I feel flush one stupid evening. The app opens and the glow dies. Hope is not a budget. It is a hobby I cannot even afford.
London is useful for that mood. Pavement, pace, no eye contact at all. You can finish a whole private argument before the next packed overground.
Uber. Bar. A name I will not save. I sat at work hoping nobody asked. Being skint makes romance feel like a secret little purchase.
Good coat, dead eyes, fashion week spillover on a Tuesday. Then the doors open and we are all just late. Glamour had a time limit.
Uniform on the chair. Alarm set. The weekend already feels fictional. London does not let you keep Friday night. It wants you back in pieces.
Lip, coat, nails, bus. Nobody has to know the account. This city reads surfaces first. I give it a surface that looks like proper winning.
No eye contact. Fast feet. A whole argument finished before my stop. This city is rude and useful. It lets you disappear while staying public.